Is the urge to create innate
or a passing mist, quirk of fate,
doomed to die, as we wingless fly,
in dream waves that will soon abate?
Questions: what, where, when how and why
spurred by mind, lets not bliss draw nigh,
shrouding soul’s light, caged in within,
ego spawned urge, which we decry.
It's shadowed in darkness, growling like a hound
Creeping about, whispering as it slithers around
Begging for attention, for it desires to be found
Silence is loud when its echoes continually resound
Behold, it comes masked, disguised in these places
Preying on the gullible ones with innocent faces
Cajoling as a lover would to gain their good graces
Offering false humility with arms of frigid embraces
Silence cries out with a stench breath for adoration
Quietly seducing the naive with phrases of flirtation
Long ago, spawned to be the wielder of denigration
Contrived as a stealth mute, soused on pride's libation
Writes with ink splotches, dripped from a toxic tongue
Its poetry is deceiving, lyrics not meant to be sung
In darkness, it leaks toxins with the scent of dung
Disguised as a pacifist, but its bile words are flung
Silence, speak what you should be wanting to say
then fade back into the shadows where you often play
Your acrimony doesn't fool the many you did betray
Sheath your querulous pen, for it leads people astray
Today I am
querulous
my foot taps a rhythmless tattoo
my fingers roam unfulfilled
this bolus of undetermined want
slides down my throat,
invertebrate,
lodging in my stomach
dull,
as a faint scratching on a prison wall,
carving out the days
heavy,
as a stone unquarried and uncut,
the sculptor indecisive, reluctant to take up his chisel
some indeterminate
unfixed need
slithers, struggles for expression
through restive eyes
What is the reason for thoughts coming to mind;
most if which foment the feeling of being left behind
on an island of bewilderment,longing for the extrinsic
things in life that leave the heart to beseech God in
such a humble manner as to:are these the facets that my
soul needs to thrive? Is it so true that all sustaining
here is purely conceived to die? Dear Lord what is
the true meaning of all this packing and tucking of
good deeds and loving into a vessel that is ill-equipped to fly.
One can only catechize oneself as to:will all of this be recognized?
And so we imbibe the doctrine of blind faith while roaming
the land blind to beliefs because of all that is advertized.
We expand the soul,stretching it for a love to embrace the aura
of that which is serene and warm,pure to the soul's
force within the moment it dilates to become as one
with all that once thrived;clinging to its mass within
the unaware waiting of God's final breath to drift an
aglutinated force into the abyss of eternity and perhaps
arriving to the halidom where universes and time coalesce to elapse.
Querulous Shoe
I'm all worn
out. Would you
look at my heel?
She leaves pieces
of me all over this
campus. Whoever
bricked the walkway
did not consider the
stiletto's plight. And my
chafing toe cap, awful.
Given what she paid for
me you'd think she'd take
me to a cobbler once in a while?
Give me a makeover! Show me some
love -- instead the girl walks all over and within me,
by me. Her need breaks my sole. She just cannot
go a single step without my most supportive arch.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.